


And you could have it all, my empire of dirt

by HistoriaGloria



Series: Undeadwood [3]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Background Mirabella, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death Fix, Clayson, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, post episode 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21578242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HistoriaGloria/pseuds/HistoriaGloria
Summary: "Reverend Matthew Mason feels like he is watching this in slow motion.He watches as Clayton fires, aiming non-lethally and Aloysius misses.He watches as Aloysius fires, hitting Clayton right in the gut and the gunslinger misses.He watches as Aloysius cocks his gun again, aiming for Clayton’s heart and blood rushes to his head."
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Reverend Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Series: Undeadwood [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1573228
Comments: 3
Kudos: 77





	And you could have it all, my empire of dirt

**Author's Note:**

> OH BOI THE END OF UNDEADWOOD AMIRITE  
> I mean, I couldn't not write a Fix-It of sorts, okay, I love these gay cowboys. But honestly, it was an incredible end to truly awesome show. I just like to add my own little flair.  
> I hope you guys all enjoy this!  
> Title is from Hurt, by Johnny Cash, though my favourite version is by Tragic Tumble:  
> 'And you could have it all,  
> My empire of dirt.  
> I will let you down,  
> I will make you hurt.'

Reverend Matthew Mason feels like he is watching this in slow motion.

He feels viscerally sick, bile rising up in his throat as he follows Aloysius out of the Gem Saloon. His traitorous vocal cords won’t function, won’t let him speak up and tell Aloysius to stop, won’t let him cry out for Clayton.

And he just stands there, on the porch of the Gem Saloon watching with Miriam and Arabella who are clinging to each other like they are the only people alive in the world and he _watches._

He watches as Clayton fires, aiming non-lethally and Aloysius misses.

He watches as Aloysius fires, hitting Clayton right in the gut and the gunslinger misses.

He watches as Aloysius cocks his gun again, aiming for Clayton’s heart and blood rushes to his head.

Before he knows what he’s doing, Matthew is running, running past the ladies, running right in front of Clayton.

**_Bang!_ **

The bullet hits him right under his ribs.

Matthew chokes on his own breaths. His legs go weak as he falls back into Clayton and someone is yelling.

Is it Arabella? Miriam? He can barely make out the words through the rush of blood in his ears. His sight is white and swimming with pain

“-never forgive you, Aloysius Fogg!” His head is in someone’s lap and there is something hot dripping on his face. He tries to speak, but there is blood in his mouth and he just gurgles.

“Jesus H fucking Christ, Matty, what were you thinking?!” It’s more of a shout than a question but Clayton’s voice is so clear.

Matthew wants to tell him that he was thinking about him, that he cared about him not dying, that the only thought on his mind was _Clayton._

But he can’t speak through the blood, through the coughs that constrict his throat. Did Aloysius hit his lung? It’s certainly hard to breathe. There are hands now, on his chest, desperate and panicked.

“Reverend, c’mon. Reverend!” He thinks that might have been Arabella’s voice but it’s all a bit hazy. Matthew manages to blink his eyes clear, just enough to see Clayton swim into focus, holding him in his lap.

There is blood dripping from the wound in his gut and falling into Matthew’s hair. One hand goes up, weak and trembling as he tries to press it over Clayton’s wound. He needs to put pressure on it. He needs to live. Matthew needs him.

It doesn’t really occur to him until now that he might be the one dying, not Clayton.

He groans, agony ripping through his chest and someone is touching the bullet wound and then…

Everything goes white.

* * *

Reverend Matthew Mason is the biggest fucking idiot he has ever met, (Amos? No…) Clayton decides.

When Aloysius had pulled his gun in the Gem Saloon, Clayton had accepted his fate. He’d been outrunning the corrupt law for so long, even in Deadwood he couldn’t escape it. When Aloysius had challenged him a duel, a fair death, Clayton had accepted it. Better this than a long rope and a short drop.

He hadn’t wanted it to happen, of course not. Matthew and he had just started to make something of this odd dance they had been doing around each other. Arabella had just become almost like an annoying sister to him. Miriam had become motherly in an endearing way. And even Aloysius had become a friend.

But this was a better way to go than some other ways.

He wouldn’t kill Aloysius. He wouldn’t. He aimed for his gun hand, but it’s not working and Aloysius wants him dead and there’s a bullet in his gut and one coming for his chest and then…

Matthew throws himself in front of him.

At shooting the reverend, at shooting whatever constituted as an _innocent man_ in Alyosius’s brain, he panics, walking quickly down the street and out of Deadwood. Miriam screams curses and hatred through her tears after him but Clayton is more interested in the man in his arms. The bullet has pierced the reverend’s lung and his eyes are unfocused, coughing blood up to coat his lips.

By God, he’s so fucking dumb.

Clayton’s heart shatters.

He’s so fucking dumb.

He tries to talk, tries to get Matthew to stay with him, but he continues to be an idiot, reaching up to try and stop the bleeding from Clayton’s gut. His eyes are wet and unfocused. Arabella is there, doing what she can with her medical training, but this is a lot.

Matthew is dying in his arms.

“Reverend, c’mon, reverend!” Arabella begs as she tries to remove the bullet lodged deep in his chest, but Matthew is going limp.

“Matt, Matty, c’mon,” Clayton breathes, but the other man is still in his arms, eyes closed and Clayton bites down a scream.

Miriam runs over, stone-faced and furious.

“Let me try,” she mutters. “I’m not fucking burying anyone else.” Her hands go Matthew’s chest and she mutters something under her breath, half a curse and half a prayer.

And Matthew’s wound closes.

Clayton sags and he is faintly aware that he’s still bleeding out, sluggishly.

“Let’s get him inside, Mister Sharpe, then we’ll deal with you,” Miriam says, her voice like a razor. Clayton nods and lets both Miriam and Arabella help him carrying Matthew’s limp body back to the church. There are people watching, gathering to see about the duel in the street, but Clayton ignores them. The church is safe.

It takes them far too long to be able to get Matthew upstairs into his bed and as soon as they do, Clayton’s legs turn to water. He falls forward and is shoved into a chair as Miriam and Arabella fuss over him. Fifteen agonising minutes later, the wound in his gut is empty, stitched shut and bandaged.

Clayton’s head is swimming and all he can think about is Matthew, there, pale as the sheets he rests on. He wants to curl up with him and sleep for a thousand years; honestly, Miriam and Arabella look ready to let him.

“Clayton,” Arabella says and it occurs to him that she has never called him by his first name. “Sleep. Stay with him. We’ll rotate watches.” Clayton blinks at that. Watches?

“We’re not leaving you alone after that, Mister Sharpe,” says Miriam, part sharply and part gently. “Get your rest.”

It’s a testament to his own stupidity and how far he has come with these people so quickly that he just nods and slips into the bed beside Matthew.

Willing to sleep and let them watch his back.

* * *

Clayton wakes slowly, his stomach aching and sore from the bullet wound. He is pressed right up to a warm, breathing body and the anxiety which was twisting his insides abates a little. Slowly, he opens his eyes and stares up at the face of the man who he was rapidly giving his heart to.

Matthew is still pale and is lying flat on his back, unmoving. It’s an unusual spot for him. Despite how big he is, Matthew tends to sleep coiled, as small as he can make himself. Clayton knows this from the times he has kept watch.

He shifts, grunting as the pain washes over him and there is a remanding tut from the other side of him.

“Stay still, Mister Sharpe. You’re going to rip your stitches.” Arabella. He turns his head to look at her and is surprised to see how… inelegant she looks. Her hair is falling out of its neat bun and she’s not wearing her usual full dress and gloves. She is wearing an oversized shirt and a skirt, but both are crumpled as those she has slept in them.

Clayton goes to speak but his throat is dry. An unintelligible croak escapes him, and he tries not to look too embarrassed. Arabella shifts, handing him a cup of water, which he drinks eagerly.

“How long have I been out?” he grunts.

“Two days. You needed the rest,” comes the quiet reply.

“Matthew?”

“Hasn’t moved. He’s still breathing, he just… needs the time to heal,” she says, heavily. Clayton shifts just enough to be able to see Matthew better and he sighs.

“He’s a fucking idiot,” he mutters sharply and Arabella huffs out a laugh.

“I know. But he meant well. He wanted you to live.” Clayton rolls his eyes and changes the subject.

“Any sign of Aloysius?”

“None so far. After shooting the reverend, he left and well…” Arabella sighs. “Think Miriam will put a bullet in his head if he gets anywhere near here and I would join her. For both of you.” Clayton doesn’t know what to say to that, unsure and embarrassed by their care.

“Have you been here the whole time?” he asks gruffly.

“Well, on and off,” she replies. “Miriam and I do shifts. Speaking of, she should be here soon if you can stay up.” Clayton huffs.

“Sure, I can. Don’t want to go back to sleep anyway.” They fall quiet, Arabella returning to reading her book and Clayton just lies there, staring up at the ceiling.

What is he meant to do now? Can he remain in Deadwood? Clearly Swearingen knows that he is a wanted man. But does Swearingen really care?

Does he go back to the name of Amos Kinsley? He has been Clayton Sharpe for so long he doesn’t think he feels like Amos anymore. Amos was a kid, an idiot who got himself into trouble. Clayton is more sensible than that.

Leaving Deadwood would be the most sensible thing to do at this point, but can he leave Miriam and Arabella and Matthew after everything they’ve done for him? No.

He couldn’t leave Matthew if he tried.

Time has never been easy for Clayton to track, but he knows a significant amount has passed, maybe a half hour to an hour, when there is a light knock on the door. Miriam sticks her head in, smiling at the sight of Clayton.

“Ah, Mister Sharpe, you’re awake,”

“Miss Miriam,” he replies in greeting. “It is good to see you.” He can see Arabella giving almost nervous looks over to Matthew, afraid of waking him, but they all know he sleeps like the dead.

“How are you feeling?” she asks as she comes over to kiss Arabella on the cheek.

“Sore, but it ain’t anything new. I’ll be fine in a day or two.”

“You will be staying in bed for those days,” says Miriam, no room for argument in her voice. Clayton inclines his head in agreement. He knows better than to disagree with her. “Go rest, Bella. Go home and get changed and sleep.” Arabella nods, standing up stiffly and Clayton knows she has slept there.

“I will. Rest well, Mister Sharpe.”

“You too, Miss Arabella.” With that, she leaves and Clayton settles back into the pillows. The quiet only lasts for a moment before Miriam asks,

“So, are you going to tell us what happened before?” Clayton sighs a little and shrugs.

“Not right now. I’m not repeating myself a bunch.”

“Fair,” Miriam accepts, sitting back into the chair. “But you know it won’t matter, right? You’re still our friend and we’re gonna look after you.

And well.

Clayton really doesn’t know what to say to that.

* * *

Two days pass. Clayton regains the strength to move around, but he is still confined more or less to the room, for fear of ripping his stitches.

Matthew remains unconscious.

Clayton remains confined to the room because he can’t leave Matthew.

Sunrise on the third day is beautiful and Clayton basks in the beauty of it through the window. He just wishes that Matthew could be awake to see it too. He turns to look over at him, eyes soft and affectionate when he realises that something is different.

Matthew’s face is turned toward him.

Matthew’s eyes are open.

“Matty?!” he breathes and the reverend smiles.

“Pretty in the sun,” he croaks and Clayton is hurrying over, handing him a cup of water.

“Drink, you stupid lump,” he mutters as he helps Matthew to drink. Clayton just stares at him, watching the movement in his body like its awe-inspiring.

“You look so beautiful in the rising sun,” Matthew says as soon as he has finished drinking.

“God, Matthew, you’re so fucking stupid,” Clayton bites back, but there are tears in his eyes as he presses his forehead to the reverend’s.

“Not a very nice thing to say,” he replies mildly. Clayton is trying not to cry.

“I was so fucking worried. Why the hell did you do that? What the hell were you thinking?”

“Honestly, I was thinking that I couldn’t live without you, Clayton Sharpe. And I wasn’t about to let anyone take you away from me,” Matthew says, and his voice is so genuine. He reaches up one of his hands, wiping away the tears on the gunslinger’s face. “You mean too much.”

“You nearly died! You’ve been unconscious for five days and we’ve been so fucking worried. Besides, did you ever think that I might feel the same way, you stupid…” Clayton tails off, half frustrated and half so happy that Matthew is awake.

He has the decency to look at least a sheepish.

“I hadn’t expected it to be so… bad,” the reverend admits and shifts a little. “Ow.”

“Stay fucking still, you’ll break your stitches,” mutters Clayton, still hovering over the other.

“Says you,” Matthew manages, and the gunslinger just raises one eyebrow before the other looks meek again. “Honestly, Clayton. I’m not going to apologise. Aloysius was going to kill you and I couldn’t let that happen.”

There is a long moment of silence and Clayton sighs. He has to forgive him. He cares too much not to.

“I know, Matt. And I’m just glad you’re awake and going to be okay.”

“Can’t get rid of me that easily.”

* * *

Matthew is going a little stir crazy by the time Miriam lets him out of bed nearly a week later. Clayton has stayed with him the whole time, but honestly, the reverend is used to being about and doing things.

He stands now, at the altar in the church, quietly praying. He thanks God for helping him get through the difficulties in the past and asks for his strength to continue when he hears the doors open behind him. Matthew opens his eyes and turns around to watch the light spill into the church, haloing Miriam, Arabella and Clayton.

“Good to see you up, reverend!” says Arabella brightly, as though she wasn’t one of the people preventing that from happening. He just smiles wryly in response.

“What have I done to deserve this?”

“Promised I’d tell y’all about everything,” Clayton admits, gruffly. “Thought here’d be as good a place as any.” Matthew waves to the pews and takes a seat. The others follow suit.

“I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say that we don’t expect anything,” he says. The gunslinger nods.

“Need to get it off my chest anyway,” Clayton says. He takes a deep breath and looks down. “I did a lotta stupid things in my youth. Fell in with some pretty fucking bad people. And… an innocent guy got killed. I got the blame, the easiest target and so, I started running. The law’s pretty darn corrupt so, I changed my name several times and just kept running. The guy that did it had contacts and shit. Stuff I never had access to. But I swear, I didn’t fucking kill this man. I didn’t.

“I’ve been Clayton for a fucking while now. I thought out here I’d be far from it, but well… Aloysius thought not. Amos Kinsley was my name.

“Amos Kinsley is dead. I’m Clayton Sharpe. And, as I once told you, Miss Arabella, I ain’t ever shot at anyone who didn’t shoot at me first.” Clayton inhales and sags a little. Matthew blinks.

“That doesn’t change shit for me, Clayton Sharpe. Hell, I’m probably wanted for desertion. You’re important to me and I still care about you, fuck the corrupt law,” Matthew says. He is so sure in his conviction. The law is not necessarily the thing which decides justice and he has seen it himself. It isn’t going to make him reconsider.

“I mean, Matthew’s right,” says Arabella and Miriam is nodding. “It doesn’t change anything for us. You say you’re innocent? Then we believe you.” Clayton nods and Matthew can see the gratefulness in his face. Clayton isn’t one for showing his emotions, but Matthew can read him well enough.

“We’re still friends,” Miriam says firmly. There’s a gentle kind of silence. Matthew reaches out, taking Clayton’s hand in his own as sunlight streams into the church.

_We’re still friends._

_We’re still family._

It’s been a little while since Matthew has had a chosen family like this. And, honestly, it feels so good to have that back. Without even thinking about it, he turns his head and captures Clayton’s lips in a kiss.

And, to his utter delight, Clayton kisses right back.

**Author's Note:**

> Please come bother me, HistoriaGloria on both tumblr and twitter!


End file.
